Page 14 of Ten Beach Road

Six

It took Madeline just under eight hours to drive from Atlanta to Tampa. Although she’d brought along a book on tape, she spent most of the trip worrying. Steve’s depression and abdication, Kyra’s pregnancy and refusal to talk about her baby’s celebrity father, her mother-in-law’s growing frailty, Andrew’s belligerence—all of these things fed the panic that churned inside her. The fact that pretty much everything was riding on producing some sort of income from her third of this “property,” and that she’d have to deal with two complete strangers to produce that income, just made her stomach churn faster.

She got to Tampa late in the evening and checked into a motel just off the interstate, where the worrying, churning, and burgeoning hope that all of their financial problems were about to be solved kept her tossing and turning through the night. In the morning, she climbed back in the minivan and drove onto the Howard Franklin Bridge, the center of three bridges spanning Tampa Bay, and got her first stunning view of sunlight sparkling on water. It was a beautiful May morning, and as she lowered her window to draw a deep breath of warm moist air into her lungs, she wished she could draw the sunshine in with it.

Following her GPS, she passed the rounded dome of Tropicana Field and continued south toward Sarasota/Bradenton, ultimately exiting onto the Pinellas Bayway. Condominium buildings whooshed by on either side of the causeway, each with its slice of waterfront or golf course, most of them with names that attested to the state’s early Spanish influences: Fort DeSoto, Tierra Verde, Isla del Sol. Over the bridge’s concrete balustrade, she spied hand-shaped neighborhoods with fingers of land that poked out into the blue green water of Boca Ciega Bay. They were far too symmetrical to have been formed by nature but were beautiful nonetheless.

Slowing for a traffic light she came face-to-face with what looked like a huge pink wedding cake with white icing trim. Massively built, it stretched for several blocks, its bright pink stucco walls broken by lines of arched windows edged in white and topped by cupolas and bell towers. It loomed over the narrow two-laned Gulf Boulevard, allowing only small glimpses of the white sandy beach and the Gulf of Mexico behind it.

At her GPS’s urging, she headed south, where a sign welcomed her to the Historic District of Pass-a-Grille. There the road narrowed further, sandwiched between the bay-front homes, which ranged from small and untouched to huge and newly constructed, and the labyrinth of small streets and homes that fronted the Gulf. The call of seagulls broke through the everyday sounds as the sun continued its ascent, growing brighter and more insistent. The breeze was more subtle, barely stirring the fronds of the palm trees that seemed to be everywhere, lightly flavored with salt and warmth.

Soon her GPS, which was starting to sound a bit bossy given the palm trees and all, directed her onto the aptly named Gulf Way, and she got her first full-on look at the Gulf of Mexico and the wide white sand beach that bounded it. Drawing in another deep breath of salt-tinged air, Madeline promised herself a long walk on the beach and a swim in the Gulf. Just as soon as she saw her “mansion” and discovered, at last, just how much her share of it was worth.

The blocks were short and the avenues, which stretched from the bay to the Gulf were barely longer. Despite the tattoo of her heart, which seemed to speed up as she drew closer, Madeline drove slowly, trying to take it all in and because it didn’t seem the sort of place you were supposed to hurry through.

Moments later she’d reached the tip of the island. A sign dangled from a wrought-iron post. The first line of gold scripted letters read Bella Flora. The second line contained the address: Ten Beach Road.

A thrill snaked up Madeline’s spine. A house with a name was almost always more valuable than one without, wasn’t it?

A low concrete wall wrapped around the property, barely containing an explosion of jungle-sized greenery. Assorted palms and massive bushes, some long dead, others flowering madly, shot up above the wall and blocked most of the first story from view. Above the unruly mass and between the curving trunks of the taller palms, she could make out large expanses of pale pink stucco, a second floor lined with windows, and a multi-angled red tile roof.

Her heart beat faster at its heft and weight. Her gaze was drawn from the house to the long brick drive just beyond it where a bright blue Mini Cooper was already parked. Madeline pulled in behind it, eager to see which of her “partners” it belonged to; even more eager to tour their asset.

As Madeline parked, a figure emerged from the driver’s seat of the Mini Cooper. She was petite with pale white skin, delicate, almost doll-like features, and a bust that belonged on a much larger frame. A fringe of blonde hair hung over one eyebrow and angled to her shoulders. She wore white jeans and a long-sleeved gray and white T-shirt that deepened the gray of her eyes. Though her hair wasn’t “poufed” like it was on TV, Madeline recognized her right away. Madeline was out of the van and moving forward as the blonde straightened. “Avery Lawford?”

The blonde froze beside her car and Madeline blushed. “My mother-in-law is a big fan ofHammer and Nail. I’ve seen you on TV.”

“Oh.” That was all. As if she thought Madeline were going to ask for an autograph or was some sort of do-it-yourself groupie. “I’m Madeline Singer. I’m one of your, um, partners in the, uh, house.” She couldn’t quite bring herself to say the word “mansion” aloud, though she’d loved the sound of it in her head.

Extending her hand, she noticed how much smaller Avery Lawford appeared in person than on television. The top of her head, without the big Dolly Parton hairdo, barely reached Madeline’s shoulder.

The blonde smiled and her shoulders relaxed. “Nice to meet you,” she said as she withdrew her hand. “I was a little worried that ‘mansion’ was just a Realtor’s marketing term. But it looks . . . significant.”

Madeline nodded her agreement even as she tried to tamp down the hope burgeoning inside her. It was dangerous to have all of her eggs in this one basket; she’d already discovered just how easily those eggs could break. She shifted uncomfortably, feeling large and clumsy beside the smaller, younger woman, unsure of what to say, knowing she needed to be careful not to reveal how crucial the sale of this house was to her.

The discomfort she felt with Avery Lawford was nothing compared to what she felt when their third partner arrived a few moments later in a classic green Jaguar convertible, from which she emerged like a celebrity being handed onto the red carpet.

Madeline and Avery exchanged glances but said nothing as Nicole Grant approached.

Everything about the tall, willowy redhead screamed “big city” and “not from around here.” Her hair was pulled back in a careless yet elegant way, and her high cheekbones were set in an almost artistically angled face. The bio Madeline had read online put her in her midforties, but she looked a hell of a lot closer to Avery’s age than Madeline’s. Madeline regretted her white capris and cap-sleeved T-shirt. The multi-striped sandals and bag that she’d thought tied everything so nicely together shouted “Payless shoe store.”

The breeze stirred the short skirt of the dating guru’s halter sundress, which was undoubtedly designer and possibly vintage.

Madeline smoothed a hand down the side of her capris and wished she’d worn Spanx or at least splurged on a pedicure. “Welcome to Bella Flora,” she said as the redhead drew nearer. “I’m Madeline.”

“Avery Lawford.”

“Nicole Grant.”

They were contemplating each other warily when a Cadillac drew up to the curb. An elderly gentleman climbed out and walked toward them as briskly as the cane he leaned on would allow.

“Hello, ladies. Welcome to Pass-a-Grille,” John Franklin said after the introductions had been made. “I’m thrilled to see that Bella Flora has owners as lovely as she is.”

The Realtor had a ruff of white hair around an otherwise bald scalp and a long face dominated by the droopy brown eyes of a basset hound. But he appeared freshly shaven and turned out in a short-sleeved button-down shirt and khakis—which, Madeline reflected, could very well be the beach equivalent of a three-piece suit.

He turned to motion toward the house and they turned with him. The pale pink façade was almost completely obscured by the walled jungle in front of it. All she could make out at the end of the driveway was an outbuilding of some sort in an even paler pink.

“This property is one of the best known and most historically significant on Pass-a-Grille. It was built for the Eugene Price family back in the 1920s right around the same time as the Don CeSar—the big pink hotel you passed on the way here.”

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